The Past in Colorado

As I entered the living room, I saw the pictures sitting on the coffee table in front of the couch. They were fanned out, as though he were looking for one in particular. I walked over and fingered through them, trying to determine which he had taken. Then I heard movement in his office down the hall.

I quietly walked to his study. The door was mostly closed - open perhaps an inch. I slowly pushed on it and poked my head inside. Stephen was standing by his file cabinet. The top drawer was pulled out and he was leaning against it, holding a sheet of paper in one hand, while the other rested over his mouth. He seemed to be studying it. On his desk, I could see a photograph. It looked like one from our vacation.

"Da-...?"

I closed my eyes and winced, at having almost made the same blunder twice in as many minutes. When I opened my eyes, he was looking at me, quickly shoving the paper back into the cabinet.

I tried to smile. "Stephen?" I said meekly.

He grinned and closed the drawer, locking it. For a brief second, it struck me as odd that he would lock his file cabinet. He was an English professor, after all, and what kind of top-secret documents could he possibly have?

"Hey, there," he replied tensely, turning back to his desk.

I pushed the door open a little more. "Can I come in? You busy?"

He was standing in front of his desk and picked up the picture. Then he looked over his shoulder and smiled.

"Nah, c'mon in."

I jammed my hands in my back pockets and stepped over to his desk. He turned to me and smiled again.

"All done?" he asked.

I nodded. "Yeah," I replied. "I hosed it down, too."

His head slowly bobbed, as he leaned across his desk and grasped a framed picture of me. It was one of the prom pictures he'd taken at home. I was standing on the front porch in my dress. You'd never know by my big toothy grin, but I was a nervous wreck in that photograph.

"Whatcha doin'?" I asked.

Stephen opened the back of the frame and carefully removed the picture. He glanced at me and smiled, and then carefully folded the picture, cropping it so it would take up less space in the frame. Then he did the same to the vacation photograph on his desk. It was the picture of me sitting on the boulder. I smiled and pointed to it.

"When did you take that?" I asked mischievously.

Stephen chuckled.

"When you weren't looking," he replied.

I giggled and swung my hips against his.

"Sneaky boy," I snorted.

When both pictures were inside the frame, he set it on his desk. Then he reached over and angled the small reading lamp so the light would shine on it. He put his hands on his hips and huffed.

"Pretty nice," he said, satisfied with his handiwork.

I thought about how I tried to kiss him that morning. At the time, I was a little upset about it, but now I was slowly coming to understand his reasoning.

I pulled out my hand and reached for his, looking up at him, as he stood smiling down at the picture. He gave my hand a gentle squeeze. I wanted so much to kiss him, but I couldn't. This was as much his journey into the vast wilderness, as it was mine, and I couldn't force him to move at a pace I preferred.

***

That evening, we went out for pizza. I brought along the pictures from our vacation and was going through them with him, pointing out one thing or another, and reminiscing about various events and places - things that happened only a week before, but now seemed as remote as those mountains were from our home. With each passing day, the memories, as well as the emotions and feelings that came to light during those seven days, faded - not entirely disappearing, though. We kissed, yes. We did that. We made love, twice I think. But the heightened sense of passion seemed to be waning. My fear was that this might be the result of Stephen having second thoughts, as opposed to the novelty of the whole affair wearing thin.

I'd much rather have him think, "Hurrah! I had sex with my daughter! I wonder what's on TV?" than "Oh my God. Did I just have sex with my daughter?" I could deal with the former better than the latter. Ideally, I wanted the passion to remain at its high-water mark. Who cares what's on TV? Just hold me and kiss me and make love to me. Let me take your hand in mine, and I'll count the ways you make my heart soar every time you smile. I couldn't force him, though. He had to come to me of his own free will.

In the meantime, I placated my fears with the knowledge that eventually the puppy-dog eyes and coy smiles tone down in any relationship. The strength of love still remains, but the outward expression soon mollifies to become more affable, more congenial.

Sitting across from Stephen in the booth, I slurped on a straw dipped deep into a large cup of soda. He was flipping through the photographs across from me and chuckled. I grinned and asked what he was laughing about. He held up a photo and chuckled again. I leaned closer, squinting my eyes, trying to get a better look at it. It was a picture of me standing by a small pond, pointing out into the center where a large beaver lodge seemed to be floating. Atop the lodge was a beaver, standing on his hind legs, as if he, too, were posing for the camera.

"What's so funny about that?" I asked, playfully kicking him under the table.

He laughed again, crying, "Ouch! Nothing I guess. Just looks funny... you two standing there... 'Hey! Look at us! Say cheese!'"

I pulled the straw from my soda and flicked it at him.

He jerked his arms up and laughed. "Hey now!" he protested.

With a smirk, I put my straw down and rested my arms on the table.

"I didn't make fun of any of your pictures," I said.

Stephen glanced at me and shrugged.

"That's because you can't," he replied with a wink. "I always look good."

My jaw dropped and I raised my eyebrows high, saying, "Oh? In that case..." And then I swung my legs out and moved to sit next to him.

"Scoot over, old timer," I grunted, giving his shoulder a gentle nudge.

He laughed and moved to the side, as I plopped down on the seat next to him. For the next half hour, we poked and ribbed each other about one picture or another. It felt like we were on a date, like we were a couple in love enjoying a fun evening together.

When the waitress brought over the bill, Stephen held it up and carefully examined it.

"Well," he mumbled, handing it to me, as he fished for his wallet. He pulled out a few dollars and tossed them onto the table. I glanced at the scattering of bills, and then looked at him.

"That gonna be enough?" I asked.

He nodded and smiled. "Enough for my half," he replied with a smirk.

My eyes drifted to the money in front of me. "Oh."

I looked at the ticket in my hand, and then set it on the table. I quietly sighed, thinking maybe this is just one of those things I had to adjust to - one of those little steps you have to take. If a relationship is going to work, then it only makes sense that both parties pull their own weight and not always rely on the other to get the check every time. It actually made sense. If I wanted to do this, then I needed to do my share.

I patted the pockets of my shorts. I didn't have any money, only a roll of Certs. Tasty as they may be, they won't buy you a cup of coffee, let alone pay for a large three-cheese and pepperoni pizza and fountain drink. I glanced at my cup of soda and shook my head. It was only half empty. "Knew I shoulda got the small," I mumbled.

"Problem?"

Fidgeting, I gave Stephen a sheepish grin and slowly held up my empty hands, saying, "I, uh... I don't have any money... on me."

He raised an eyebrow and gave me a disapproving stare.

"I can... I can pay you back tomorrow," I said softly.

Then he chuckled and opened his wallet, tossing a few more bills onto the table.

"Just messin' with ya," he said, stuffing his wallet back into his pocket.

I closed my eyes with a sigh of relief and reached over to smack his arm.

"Oh man," I muttered. "You are such a bad boy."

***

That night, as we got ready for bed, I was feeling good. I sat on the edge of the bed brushing my hair, while Stephen read quietly on his side. When I glanced over my shoulder to him, he sensed my movement and looked, giving me a warm smile.

"Thanks," I said.

"For what?"

"Covering for me at dinner," I replied.

He chuckled and went back to his book. "That's ok," he said. "No problem. You're forgiven." Then he gave me what I assumed to be the sign of the cross.

I smiled, and when I had finished brushing my hair, set it on the nightstand and crawled under the covers. I rolled over to face him, my head half buried in the pillow, and brought my hands up under my chin. I watched his eyes moving quickly back and forth, as he read. Then I whispered to him.

"Hey."

Stephen turned his eyes to me and smiled. "What?"

"What were you looking at this morning in your office?"

He seemed to hesitate. "Just some papers," he replied and continued reading.

The movements of his lips were almost imperceptible, as he read. It was as if he were trying to concentrate more on his book than my question; trying to forget that I had asked it, hoping I'd drop the subject.

"Why ya keep it locked up?" I asked. "It some sorta super duper secret professor thing?"

His eyes turned to me again and I giggled. Stephen smiled, replying, "Yeah. Has our secret handshake and password on it. Just pretend like you didn't see it."

Maybe it was nothing, and apparently he didn't want discuss it any further. I slowly pushed myself up and leaned against my elbow. He turned to me and I smiled. Then I leaned over and kissed him. This time, however, he didn't turn away. I pressed my lips to his and our tongues met briefly. I moaned, as I sucked gently on his, but after a few seconds, I slowly sat back and sank under the covers.

"'Night," I said softly.

"'Night, Jessie," he replied.

***

Over the next few days, our intimacy seemed limited and sporadic. Stephen was at school most of the day, although I did drop by for our daily luncheon. I suppose it's fair to say the intensity of our physical intimacy - holding hands, kissing - was limited mainly by setting; we couldn't very well do these things openly where people might recognize him. But even when he was home, it was rare for his kisses to be deeply sensual. That's not to say they never were, rather they weren't as forthcoming as my own. But they were there nevertheless, if only limited in number.

After a good week, I decided I wouldn't be so pushy about forcing him into a situation like that - one in which he might feel pressured to reciprocate every kiss and touch in kind. But I didn't want him to think I was backing away, either. What I did was tone it down a few notches - maybe not as often, perhaps not as passionate. If there's a sense of mathematics to romance, mine reasoned such that, instead of five passionate kisses and three friendly pecks on the cheek, I'd give him one passionate kiss and four friendly. And I also made it a point not to dress as provocatively around him, although, in all fairness, it wasn't as if I was trying to be a sexual tease. I simply figured, what the heck? Might as well walk around the house comfortably. Still, I could see how that might cause him some unease.

To counterbalance this, I made a concerted effort to get to know him better; to become his friend. Sex is nice, but it can't be the foundation upon which a lasting relationship is built. Eventually, that other person is going to open their mouth and speak. And God help you, if what's between their ears doesn't entice you as much as what they have between their legs.

***

The magnitude of this struck home one day, when I realized we would spend the rest of our lives together. This is the man I would grow old with. This is the man whose children I would bear. When I was younger, I put a lot of thought into what my life would be like, when I moved away from home to settle down and marry the man of my dreams. And now that moment had arrived. It snuck up on me.

Dumbfounded by the realization, I plopped down onto the couch and sat staring at the wall in front of me.

"It's here," I mumbled. "My life has finally started."

My vision blurred, as my mind began to drift, and my thoughts became a jumbled menagerie, hopping around with no sense of order or continuity.

My childhood has come to an end. I'm an adult now. I have to be a grownup. I'm having sex with my dad. Well, no, not recently I haven't. I'm pregnant. I don't know that for sure, but I probably am. I'm going to have my dad's baby. Are you ready for that? Did you even think about what would happen? A.A. Milne. Why am I thinking of him? Oh yeah: Winnie the Pooh. I wonder if it's going to be a boy or girl? God, he better not have thrown away all of my old children's books. The House At Pooh Corner. I know I still have that one. Oh, man, I swear, that man better not have thrown those books away. Nah, I bet he didn't. They're probably locked away somewhere, safe and secure. What the hell was he looking at the other day? Why didn't he tell me? Now I'm just plain curious. Nah, it's none of my business. Doesn't it bother you that you're sleeping with your dad? No, why should it? I don't feel bad about it. I know I should, but I don't. That doesn't make sense. I know, but I don't know what else to say. It doesn't feel wrong. Feel. Doesn't feel wrong. It's like an instinct thing. Yeah, my instincts say it's ok. So does my heart. So does he. He's not an idiot. He's wonderful. He's never hurt me. He's always been nice. He's a nice guy. I bet he's popular at school. I bet a lot of girls think he's cute. Too bad for them. He's mine now. That just sounds right. He's mine now. I love him and he loves me. Hey! Didn't I use to have a bunch of Dr. Seuss books? Yertle the Turtle. I did! I had that! Oh man, he better not have thrown that away.

I reached over and picked up the phone.

"Hello."

"Da-... Stephen?"

"Ay'yup. How's it goin', sparkplug?"

"Where are all my Dr. Seuss books?"

There was a pause. He must have been thinking about it - thinking how to answer that. Now I was getting angry. I wrapped the cord around one hand and held the phone tightly to my ear.

"Dad... where are my Dr. Seuss books?"

He hesitated and tried to speak.

"I'm... Well... ya know, Jess, come to think of it, I think those may have got lost in a move."

I grimaced and gripped the phone hard, growling into it.

"Dad... where are... my Dr. Seuss... books."

There was a sigh on his side.

"Jessie..." he pleaded.

I closed my eyes, whimpering, "Did you throw them away?"

He sighed again, and a tear rolled down my cheek, as I awaited his answer. When he didn't reply, started to cry.

"Daddy... mom... mom got me... she got me some of those," I whispered.

"Honey... God, sweetheart... I know she did."

My lips drew into a deep frown and I held a hand to my face, sobbing and coughing.

"Jessie," he said. "No, I didn't..."

But I reached over and hung up the phone, before he could finish. I collapsed onto the couch, burying my face in a pillow, and cried out, nearly screaming in pain, in anger - mad at myself, mad at my dad, mad at my mom. I clenched my fist and pounded the cushion.

"Fuck!"

Bolting upright, I threw the pillow across the living room in a fit of rage. Weeping loudly, I pressed my hands to my face, soaking up my tears and muffling my wails. I kicked my foot sharply and knocked over the coffee table. When it landed with a thud, I quickly dropped my hands, startled by the sudden sound. It was lying on its side; everything on it spilled across the floor. My calculator was lying at my feet. I'd been playing with it earlier, trying to figure out how old I was in days rather than years. Dad bought it for me, just before I started my senior year of high school. Since I was always borrowing his, he took me out and bought one of my own. It was expensive, too. I reached down and picked it up. A tear landed on it, reminding me where I was and what I was doing. I suddenly reared back my arm and was about the smash it against the far wall, but stopped. I stopped and cried, holding it tightly against my stomach. It was a gift from Stephen - from my dad, the only parent I had and ever knew; the man I was so deeply in love with; the man whose child I was carrying.

I got up from the couch and was about to walk up to my bedroom, but paused at the stairs, looking down the other hall to his office. I tromped down and pushed open the door, looking inside. Tall bookshelves lined three walls, and directly across from me was his desk, a few papers scattered across the top. There were no windows in the room. I always thought it made the room dark and dreary, but he liked it that way. "No distractions," he'd say. Next to his desk was the filing cabinet with a few framed pictures perched atop. Wiping my nose, I walked over and reached for the top drawer. I tugged, but it was locked. I tugged harder, but it didn't budge. Then I grunted, giving it a mighty yank, and the pictures on top fell over with a clatter.

I stood silently staring at the cabinet. For just a second, less than the blink of an eye, I wanted to knock it to the floor, stomp on it, beat my dad's office chair against, just to get out all the pent up anger and emotion that had been welling up inside of me. I wanted to tear his office apart and let him know how I was feeling about him, myself, about what was happening to us.

How could I be in love with this man? It didn't make sense. He seemed so wonderful and perfect, but how could he do this with his own daughter? How could he possibly say he was in love with me? My dad wasn't a weirdo or pervert or just plain nuts. He was one of the most rational people I knew. What sane man could do this? And what about me? How could I be doing this with him?

I closed my eyes and dropped my chin, as tears began streaming down my face once again.

Why? Why was I doing this? What was wrong with me? Nothing. I told myself countless times that I couldn't help how I felt toward him. But my conscience reminded just as often that this wasn't a conclusive answer, that there must be a rational explanation. For so long, I thought something was wrong with me, that I had some sort of mental disorder. But I always came back to the same answer: it just felt right. But why?

I stood crying, as the rage building within, wringing my hands and breathing hard, thinking and trying to make sense of it all. Then like a coiled spring, I balled my fist and punched the file cabinet, slamming into it with a scream.

"Because he doesn't feel like my dad!" I cried.

The cabinet rocked violently, sending two frames to the floor in front of me. I jumped back, rubbing my sore fist, and looked down at the pictures. Terrified that I might have damaged them, I slowly leaned down and picked them up. One was of me when I was seven years old. My dad had taken me to a picnic for his department at school. I was standing on a small wooden dock by a pond, holding a tiny Charlie Brown fishing pole in one hand and a small plastic fish in the other. I could still remember that day very well.

Not long after the picture was taken, I was sitting on the dock next to him, dipping my line into the water and trying to catch a fish. I could see them darting around just below my feet. They were very small, like tiny dark spots flitting about. I wanted them to come up and bite my line and kept asking Dad why they wouldn't. The next thing I remember was jumping into the water. I could see the bottom and didn't think it was that deep. I splashed around, crying for him, my arms flailing, as I choked and gagged. Dad jumped in and scooped me up, setting me back on the dock. The water couldn't have been more than three feet. It didn't even come up to his waist. But the look he gave me, as I sat on the dock and he stood in the water, made me burst into tears.